MIRANDA.
A MORAL TALE.
(Concluded from [page 318].)
Sighs and tears interrupted her speech; her words died on her tongue; she pressed her little companion, and was silent. Her mother begged she might here take up the story.
She was just beginning, when an old woman opened the cottage-door. Her appearance was such as to prejudice beholders in her favour. She set down a basket, which she carried on her arm; and, without speaking a word, was about to retire, when the matron called to her—“This gentleman, Mary, who deigns to interest himself so much in our afflictions, will not, my heart, I know not why, tells me, be offended at your being admitted to his company.” I joined my voice to the old lady’s—Mary curtsied, and sat down.
“This, Sir,” continued the old lady; “this, Sir, is our Heaven-sent benefactress: under that rustic garb, are virtues which would adorn the possessors of a throne!—But I make you uneasy, my good friend; I will cease to praise you in words: I will only tell your actions, and let them praise you. This worthy creature, Sir, lived with us twenty years. In that space, she saved nearly forty pounds; by which we have all, my poor dear husband included, been for these nine months supported.”
“The money came from you, my good lady; it was my duty, therefore,” said Mary, “when you stood in need, to restore it to you again.”
“Her attentions, Sir, would heal our woes, if they could admit of cure: but, alas! that seems impossible. However, when I reflect how miraculously Heaven has hitherto preserved us, I take comfort; and hope that, in his own good time and manner, he will make us triumph over our calamities. God is just; he chastens those whom he receives into the number of his children.”
“Do not doubt, Madam,” exclaimed I, involuntarily clasping her hand; “do not doubt, that God will speedily cause you to emerge out of this sea of adversity!”
“Will you please, Madam, to take your little supper now?” said Mary, with officious attention.